


The Contradiction

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Art Heists, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Peter's POV, heroics, murders, undercover op
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-15 00:00:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18487123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Peter takes a short break to attend a conference in Quantico, Virginia. Of course, there is that old saying that when the cat’s away, the mice will play. But in this instance, it’s Agent Ruiz who is the rat in the evolving scenario, and Neal pays the price.





	1. The Prelude

Diana’s voice was clipped and precise. “Boss, I hate to bother you, but I thought you’d want to know. Neal’s being shipped off to Rikers as we speak. Jones and I have been shut down so we can’t prevent it from happening.”

 

Twenty-Four Hours Earlier

Peter was on his way to a conference down in Quantico, Virginia. Reese Hughes had insisted that Peter make an appearance at the two-day seminar because he considered the subject matter being presented by the Behavioral Analysis Unit to be pertinent. The profilers would be expounding on the nature of con artists, and Hughes had arched one eyebrow as he sarcastically quipped, “Know your enemy, Peter.”

Peter had just sighed and wondered if Neal would ever be truly accepted at the FBI. The paroled former criminal had almost three years under his belt of his four-year sentence, and he had been pivotal in solving some pretty knotty cases. Sure, there had been bumps along the way—okay, maybe some huge mountains that the CI and his mentor had to scale after a few stunts like Nazi treasures and island getaways in the Indian Ocean. But they had persevered and Neal was still here. Actually, Neal would be staying in New York City during Peter’s little jaunt down south because he had been loaned to Organized Crime to help them in their search for a group of homicidal maniacs creating mayhem in the usually staid art world. The conniving little Agent Ruiz had managed to somehow convince his superiors that a mob syndicate was involved. He was not particularly happy when the anklet was removed so that Neal had even the slimmest chance of going undercover. Ruiz would have preferred that a microchip be embedded subcutaneously on the felon’s forearm instead of just a nondescript wristwatch. But that wasn’t happening, and Ruiz continued to stew and act obnoxious. Jones and Diana tried to keep tabs on Neal to make sure the swaggering buffoon heading up Organized Crime didn’t take advantage of the indentured felon.

Peter arrived on site at the Quantico auditorium at 8 AM and hobnobbed with a few acquaintances he hadn’t seen in a while. He sipped at his cup of hot coffee and ate a danish from the proffered morning spread in the back of the conference room before settling himself into a folding chair. Complimentary pens and notepads had been provided at each seat, and Peter propped his elbows on the table and tried not to look too bored as the first speaker made his way to the podium. After years of both chasing Neal and working alongside him, Peter thought that _he_ was more than qualified to teach this seminar! But then Peter chided himself for channeling his CI’s usual cocky mindset. Perhaps he should just hunker down with the hope of learning something new that he didn’t already know.

The lead profiler, dressed in a somber grey suit, got right to the heart of the matter with little buildup or fanfare. “I think it’s safe to say that all con artists are basically narcissists,” he began his lecture with a blanket statement. “They want what they want and manipulate those around them in their pursuit of gratification. They are willing to go the extra mile to obtain the objects of their desires, and honest, trusting people become insignificant flotsam in their world. These charlatans are social misfits, and they all tend to manifest certain characteristics, such as arrogance, shamelessness, entitlement, and exploitation. They have few, if any, redeeming qualities as they destroy ‘mark’ after ‘mark’ in their relentless crusades to feather their own nests. Now, let’s get more specific. Let’s address the traits I just mentioned in greater detail,” the confident speaker continued as he adroitly shuffled his index cards.

“Arrogance is a given for narcissistic con men. They have a distorted self-image, so he or she truly believes that they are the smartest person in the room. It’s quite common for them to verbally debase the importance of anyone else who ventures into their orbit. Their shameless colossal egos simply won’t allow another entity to challenge them. They feel entitled and special, and their needs supersede those of others. According to two eminent psychiatrists, Dr. Hotchkiss and Dr. Masterson, ‘Narcissists hold unreasonable expectations of particularly favorable treatment and automatic compliance because they consider themselves to be unique. Failure to comply with their wishes is considered an attack on their superiority, so if you have ever encountered a dedicated con man, he could be construed as a difficult person who sort of bulldozes his way forward like a bigger than life character. Defiance of his willful intentions is an affront that can trigger rage.”

Peter looked around him and saw many of his colleagues slowly nodding their heads in agreement. He simply furrowed his brow and tucked away these supposed nuggets of wisdom to examine at a later time because the profiler was droning on like an enlightened and sage Buddha.

“Now, let’s talk about exploitation,” he continued. “That’s a con man’s sweet spot and it can manifest in many forms, but it’s always about taking advantage of others without regard for their feelings or their wellbeing. How far con artists may go in their quest for gratification depends on their daring and their tolerance for danger. They are usually one-man shows of hubris, and it is almost impossible for them to sustain personal relationships. Other people simply exist for the narcissist’s needs, and they are considered to be nothing more than handy tools to use. That’s the result of narcissists having no boundaries. It is virtually impossible for these people to even recognize boundaries much less respect them.”

The profiler then clicked on his iPad and suddenly columns and graphs popped up on the hanging screen behind him. “This is a documented compilation of incarcerated con artists who reached the tipping point into the realm of sociopathy,” he intoned solemnly. “The prisons are full of them. To recap about this personality disorder, a sociopath is a person characterized by persistent antisocial behavior, impaired empathy and remorse, and who displays a myriad of bold, uninhibited egocentric traits. These inmates took it to the next level when they became dangerous, sometimes even homicidal, in their quest for greedy personal fulfillment, and God help those who got in their way.”

Peter breathed a sigh of relief when the forum stopped for lunch, and he decided not to return for the afternoon breakout sessions where other agents would discuss their own experiences with con artists. What Peter and Neal had was personal, and Peter didn’t want to share any intimate insights on the subject. Somehow, that would seem like a betrayal of the tenuous bond of trust between them. The metaphorical chain that bound them together had been forged, link by slow link, over the span of many years.

Eventually Peter found himself wandering aimlessly through the manicured grounds surrounding the FBI buildings. It was a beautiful Spring day, and he sat contentedly on a bench as he rehashed the morning’s lecture. A lot of what the profiler said was true, but so many of the details just didn’t fit into the puzzle that was Neal Caffrey. You couldn’t just pigeonhole the young man because he was a conglomeration of contradictions. Big surprise—when had Neal ever allowed himself to fit into a preordained mold?

Of course, Peter was no Pollyanna. The FBI agent was the first to admit that Neal was a con man—actually, an extraordinarily good one. In a way, he was just as proficient a profiler as any of those guys from the Behavioral Analysis Unit. He could read people in an instant and inherently know what they desired most as he set about offering it to them. Of course, Neal had his own agenda, and, eventually, he knew he would benefit as well. However, there were many more qualities that differentiated Peter’s CI from a sociopathic menace, and Peter began ticking them off silently in his mind.

So, okay, Neal certainly did have a high opinion of himself and his abilities. However, that was warranted and not some distortion of a self-image. He was uniquely intelligent and extremely talented in so many ways. And yet, Peter knew the glossy and amicable exterior was a carefully constructed veneer to disguise the soft underbelly of vulnerability. Perhaps Peter may have been the only one besides Mozzie who knew about the heartache of a neglected childhood and abandonment by parents who should have loved and cherished him during his formative years. Peter had also witnessed, firsthand, the debilitating pathos that almost ripped a devoted lover apart when Kate had been killed. Neal had once given his heart to another, passionately and faithfully. He wasn’t some isolated island unto himself.

Maybe that deep abiding grief had been responsible for creating a true sense of empathy in Neal’s psyche. The young man really seemed to care about people, even if they were not targeted as marks who could be useful to him in an endeavor. Quite often the kindness and consideration that he displayed were simply because he saw it as the right thing to do. He was staunchly protective of both June and Mozzie, and would probably take a bullet for either of them. Even coworkers who wouldn’t trust him with a Renoir had no trouble entrusting him with their emotions. Peter had somehow found out that Diana had first gone to Neal to unburden her soul after her breakup with Christie. Clinton Jones had found Neal on his doorstep with a bottle of Glenlivet a few days after the junior agent had buried his father. The funeral had been out of Neal’s radius in another state, so the “con man” had taken the grieving wake, one on one, to his friend.

Peter was determined to add his two cents to the roundtable discussions that appeared on the next morning’s agenda. Perhaps some smug FBI agents, who thought they knew it all, needed to have their horizons expanded. However, Diana’s phone call changed all of his good intentions. Neal was in trouble and Peter needed to sort it out—again!

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter quickly collected his garment bag and small case of toiletries before hitting the road. Further conversations with Jones and Diana were unproductive because, apparently, there were territorial issues. As ridiculously juvenile as that seemed, White Collar was being kept out of the loop while Ruiz played things close to the vest. Peter suspiciously thought that the pompous little hard-liner didn’t want anyone else to share in the glory if his unit managed to take down the criminals.

Peter tried to reach Ruiz many times on the phone during the unrelenting five hour drive. In each instance that he actually got through to the Organized Crime Office, he was told the elusive agent was unavailable. Well, Peter would just see about that! The nearer Peter got to New York, the more frustrated and furious he was becoming. He knew he had to calm down and, at least, appear to be reasonable. There were always three sides to any story, so Peter would start with Ruiz’s version first. He tried for cool, calm, and collected as he strode purposely into the Organized Crime Division at the Bureau where he eventually found Ruiz standing in his office with a phone to his ear. When he spied Peter invading his space, the Latino agent turned so the two men stood facing each other like gunslingers in an old Wild West parody.

“You’re here about your little pet project, right Burke?” Ruiz sneered.

“I’m here about my _partner_ , and I need to know what’s going on,” Peter said through clenched teeth.

“This is Organized Crime business, Burke, and I’m not obligated to tell you anything,” Ruiz claimed, “but since I’m feeling magnanimous, I’ll just give you the broad strokes. Your CI is dirty. The guy thought he was being slick and could con us into thinking he was being part of this team. But I’m no fool and I saw right through him. He was playing for the opposition. He was planning on cashing in on this sting that we had in play, and then he was going to disappear.”

“And just _how_ did you arrive at that conclusion?” Peter demanded to know.

“Because I’m a lot smarter than Caffrey,” Ruiz bragged. “I saw right through the lying, so me and my team tossed his place. Know what we found? A go-bag chock full of cash as well as a passport and credit cards in another name. Happy now?”

“I’m guessing you found the _damning_ evidence behind that hinged painting beside his bed,” Peter said knowingly.

“You knew about it?” Ruiz said in disbelief, his voice a full octave higher.

“I knew about it,” Peter confirmed.

“Then you’re either an idiot or just a stupid chump, Burke!” Ruiz said disdainfully.

“I can assure you that I’m neither,” Peter barked. “Now what, exactly, started this chain reaction that got Neal locked up again?”

Ruiz was not about to be cooperative. He was still perseverating about Peter’s knowledge of Neal’s getaway preparations. “I’m not explaining anything until I know why you don’t seem concerned that your CI was all set to probably flee the country.”

“Neal wasn’t going anywhere,” Peter insisted. When Ruiz snorted and looked unconvinced, Peter tried to justify the bag’s existence. “Neal’s go-bag—well, it’s sort of like when an alcoholic who is on the wagon still keeps a bottle of liquor around. It’s tempting and a reminder of old habits, but also a prompt for the addict to be stronger than his addiction.”

The antagonistic Ruiz wasn’t buying it. “I’m thinking that Caffrey is just like any other con man. He probably knew that you knew about his preparations hidden in the wall. So, while he kept your attention on one of his hands, the other had another go-bag stashed away somewhere else with yet another identity. Burke, take off your blinders, for crap sake. You’ve been played!”

Peter could see very well, thank you very much. What he saw in front of him right now was probably the biggest narcissist in all of New York City, and, unfortunately, that pompous ass was running the show and determined to ruin Neal.


	2. Getting the Lay of the Land

Since Ruiz failed to be more forthcoming, Peter left in a huff. He sighed deeply as he contemplated another long car trip across to Riker’s Island to get the second side of the story from Neal. At least the prison guards proved cooperative as they led a manacled young man in an orange jumpsuit to a table in the visitor’s center. Neal plopped down across from Peter and his face looked like a thundercloud.

“I really hate being passed around from department to department in the FBI like some white elephant gift,” he seethed.

“Yeah, I get that you’re pretty unhappy right now,” Peter commiserated.

“Ya think?” Neal replied sarcastically before barreling on in condescension. “Ruiz is a friggin’ moron, and it’s a wonder he can figure out how to tie his shoes every morning. I probably have more smarts in my little finger than he has brain cells in his thick head!”

Peter realized he was going to have to deal with yet another narcissist—one whom he was very fond of and wanted to protect. Employing the patience of a saint, Peter wondered if a halo had somehow materialized over his own head. “Can you just fill in the blanks, Neal, without the color commentary? I’m operating in the dark here,” Peter pleaded.

“Fine! You want the long or the short version?” Neal sniped.

“I want to hear all the pertinent details, Buddy, no matter how long that takes,” Peter insisted.

“Okay, then here we go with this fractured fairytale fable,” Neal sneered with a sardonic little smile, no doubt pleased with his alliterative description. “There is a malicious little gang afoot in New York who have a pretty sweet deal going for them. At this point in time, I believe they are a tightknit group of three people who troll the Dark Web and take orders from prospective buyers who desire to own an authentic masterpiece currently residing in a museum. Sometimes it becomes a bidding war between avid collectors and the occasional greedy fence. Deals are made and a cash incentive is supplied, upfront, in the form of bitcoin—all quite untraceable, of course. Then the reconnaissance begins and these guys are pretty thorough, so it’s not your run of the mill smash and grab. They make a plan and they execute it with precision, and they don’t leave any live witnesses behind like museum security guards. They don’t have a problem with collateral damage.”

“Do you know the names of the players?” Peter asked.

“Not really. They gave me their first names but they’re probably bogus. I’ve only been undercover in their operation for a few weeks. They actually know who I am and my history, so maybe they see me as a handy resource because of my previous expertise in the area of art theft. But as for trusting me—not so much.” Neal explained.

“How did you manage to get yourself embedded in their operation?” Peter asked.

“Just as the FBI has their confidential informants, I have a few of my own street contacts,” Neal answered. “They pointed me in the right direction and I may have ‘accidentally’ bumped into one of the gang in a bar one night. I knew how to talk the talk and to make the shrouded overture, so eventually, an invitation was extended. I said all the right things about needing to get out from under the FBI’s thumb, and I must have been pretty convincing,” Neal said with a degree of pride.

“Of course you were,” Peter almost groaned.

“Well, I’m supposed to be useful,” Neal said petulantly. “Isn’t that why you keep me around?”

“I keep you around for a lot of other reasons as well,” Peter said in his own defense. “I don’t just consider you to be a tool in my belt, Neal. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

Much to Peter’s disappointment, Neal just shrugged evasively, so his handler continued in a softer voice. “Okay, Buddy, I guess we can revisit that issue later. Go on with your story.”

The young prisoner complied. “So, alright, the cadre finally gets around to taking another order, and then they pick my brain for how to steal a Titian from the Frick. I’m actually stashed on the sidelines because they never intend for me to be a part of the real theft or even know the date that it’s all supposed to go down. Remember—trust issues and all that good stuff. Well, I do my thing and I keep Ruiz in the loop, but the doofus decides that he wants me to wear a wire so Organized Crime can get it all on the record. But just planning this heist isn’t enough for Ruiz. Oh no—he wants me to amass a condemning wealth of trivia regarding past thefts as well as several murders.

Now I ask you, Peter, how dumb is that? I’m just supposed to nonchalantly inquire about details out of innocent curiosity? The gang members always pat me down to my skivvies to make sure there’s nobody eavesdropping. They confiscate my phone, my watch, and any pens or even loose change that I might have on me. If they found a listening device, I’d be dead meat. Maybe that was Ruiz’s plan all along. Use me to get it all recorded, even the sound of the shot to my head. Then he’d probably say, ‘Sorry, Caffrey, it’s been real. Too bad it all went to shit and we couldn’t save your sorry ass.’”

“Maybe it wasn’t as cold as all that,” Peter said softly, but when Neal looked unconvinced, the agent continued. “Was that when Ruiz decided that you weren’t a team player and threw you back in jail?”

“No, that came later,” Neal answered. “Ruiz actually kicked stupidity up a notch. He arrested one of the gang on some trumped up charge. I think the cops may have planted some drugs on him so that he was completely removed from the equation. I was supposed to gallantly step up to the plate and be his substitute. Peter, these criminals are very street smart and savvy, and definitely not as naïve as Ruiz thinks. They’d never buy into a coincidence like that, and I’d again have a bull’s eye on my back. I tried to use one syllable words to explain it to Ruiz, but he suspected that I was working against him. One day, he and his little band of merry men searched my place and thought they found a smoking gun.”

“Which was?” Peter asked quietly as he held eye contact and arched his eyebrows in a question.  He was determined to wait Neal out and hear his confession.

Neal managed to look a bit sheepish. “It may have been just something that I squirreled away a long time ago in case of an emergency. I’m sure he told you it was a go-bag, but I didn’t intend to use it. It’s just that old habits are really hard to break. I know you probably don’t believe me, Peter, but that’s the truth.”

“As unfathomable as it sounds, I do believe you, Neal,” Peter smiled fondly.

“So, what now?” Neal wanted to know.

“Now you sit tight and don’t do anything _stupid_ while I try to salvage this op and get you sprung from here,” Peter said thoughtfully.

“Do I have a choice?” Neal replied forlornly.

“Oh, Buddy, I know exactly what you’re capable of doing when you set your mind to it,” Peter remarked drolly.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was late in the day, so Peter went home and began to devise a plan to get Neal back where he belonged right by his side. It was risky, especially when he decided to circumvent Hughes and go above his head to Bancroft, his boss’s boss. Peter delicately explained the situation and his hastily constructed plan to pull Ruiz’s ass out of the fire. A lot of man hours and overtime had already gone into this operation, so the FBI couldn’t just let it crash and burn.

Bancroft listened without comment until Peter had finished his plea. “Do you really trust your criminal CI that much?” he asked the inevitable question.

“I’d trust Neal with my life,” Peter answered decisively.

“You do realize that shit runs downhill,” Bancroft stated, “and it will bury you if you’re wrong about him.”

“I’m not wrong,” Peter insisted.

So, with Bancroft’s endorsement and considerable might behind him, Peter payed another visit to a cantankerous Ruiz. “This is how it’s going to go. Either get on board, my friend, or get out of the way,” Peter threatened.

“I’m not your friend, Burke,” Ruiz growled. “You’ve got some brass balls to pull rank like this. Maybe Caffrey’s much more than just a CI to you. Maybe you got a little piece on the side when your wife isn’t looking.”

Peter fought the urge to punch the jerk’s lights out, but that wouldn’t solve anything. “This is just a courtesy call, Ruiz, to let you know how it’s all going to go from now on. White Collar is in the house and we’re taking over!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal was already seated in the prison visiting area when Peter arrived later that morning. He was staring down at the table seemingly oblivious to what was going on around him.

“Neal,” Peter said quietly, feeling that little comforting thrill of watching those vivid blue eyes give him their full, undivided attention. Maybe Peter was deluding himself, but he thought he saw a bit of hope in that laser-like gaze.

“I’ve come up with a scenario that might salvage this operation and get you back to White Collar,” Peter said quietly as he began to lay out the nuts and bolts. “Your arrest may work to our advantage. It may bolster your street cred in the gang’s eyes and make it seem as if you have even more reason to turn on your handlers. We can have you arraigned later today, and maybe Mozzie can do his lawyer impression and get you temporarily released on bail.”

“I don’t want Mozzie to be put in danger,” Neal immediately argued, so unlike a narcissist who didn’t care about the wellbeing of others. “I made sure that June went to stay with her daughter when all this started, and Moz shouldn’t be a sitting duck either.”

“Mozzie is like a cockroach,” Peter replied drolly. “He could survive a nuclear holocaust and come out unscathed.”

“Are you forgetting about the time he took a bullet to the chest that almost killed him?” Neal reminded Peter.

“Look, Neal, Mozzie will be playing just a very small part. He merely has to channel Perry Mason and get you sprung from this place, and that’s the total extent of his involvement. Then you wait patiently for the other cockroaches to come out of the woodwork. Now that this gang is one man short, they may have to use you since they’ve already accepted a down payment for an upcoming theft. You get word to me of the date and time and let me take it from there.”

“They have very real guns, Peter,” Neal said quietly. “Historically, that means that security guards die. Do you really want to risk a life to catch them in the act or when they’re making their getaway?”

“I intend to be a security guard at the Frick on the designated night of the heist,” Peter informed his partner. “I’ll be armed to the teeth and I’ll have Jones, Diana, and the rest of the team waiting in the wings with more fire power. You have to trust me, Buddy. White Collar’s got this.”

“Elizabeth is definitely not going to like this plan,” Neal predicted, “and I can’t say that I’d blame her for having reservations. Too much could go wrong.”

“Well, Bancroft isn’t too happy with it either, but I got him to agree,” Peter replied. “So, it’s going to be all on your shoulders to move this train along.”

“You went to bat for me with the higher echelons?” Neal asked incredulously.

“Of course,” Peter quickly responded. “I believe in you, kiddo. Now, make me proud so we can rub Ruiz’s nose in it!”


	3. The Third Side of the Story—Or How It Ends

Mozzie enacted his lawyer role splendidly, appearing in a seersucker suit, big bow tie, and lugging a well-worn briefcase stuffed to almost bursting. He managed to get Neal released on an exorbitant amount of bail. He then turned to his client and said in a whisper, “I will expect your Suit friends to reimburse us for this outlay of capital.”

“Well, if they don’t, maybe we can deduct it from our taxes as a business expense,” Neal whispered back.

“Yes, we probably could if we ever did deign to actually file tax returns,” Mozzie said smugly.

Any more discussion came to an abrupt halt as Peter approached and addressed Mozzie. “Okay, Counselor, it’s time for you to get out of Dodge. I’ll take over from here.”

“Keep Neal safe, Peter,” the little bald man said earnestly, using his arch nemesis’ name instead of a derogatory moniker.

“I will, Mozzie,” Peter promised just as seriously.

“Now for the hard part—the waiting,” Peter remarked as he drove Neal home to his apartment on Riverside Drive. “Keep your phone powered on because that’s the only way I can track you.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start looking for the gang,” Neal mused. “They always arranged meets in abandoned buildings throughout the city. Maybe my best option is to wait for them to come to me. I can probably nudge things along by frequenting the same bar where first contact was made.”

“Just be careful, Neal,” Peter said worriedly. “Remember, these men are killers.”

“I’m not likely to forget that ominous little thought,” Neal answered. “But I’ve been in life and death situations before and I’ve managed to survive.”

“Yeah, but there’s a first time for everything,” Peter said softly.

~~~~~~~~~~

After three nights of being a barfly, Neal was rewarded for his efforts. He was nursing a single malt Scotch and staring at a basketball game on a flat screen when, suddenly, he was bracketed by the two remaining gang members. “You up for a little action?” one whispered under his breath.

“I’m more than ready,” Neal said steadfastly. “I’ve reached critical mass with the FBI and I’m not about to abide being sent back to Sing Sing. I’ll need some folding money to make my getaway, so I’ll expect an equal cut of the sale price of the Titian. From what I hear on the street, your former associate won’t have any use for it in the near future.”

“You’ll get 20%, not a third, pal, and that’s if you can help us pull it off without a hitch,” the gang member snarled. “Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll settle for 25%,” Neal haggled after he gave it gave it a bit of thought. “You’re the one who needs me, not the other way around. I’m pretty clever, so I can go solo to figure out other ways to finance my escape.”

The thug grunted. “You better not be blowin’ smoke, Caffrey. You better be as good as you claim or you’ll wind up wishing you _were_ back in prison instead of in a morgue somewhere.”

“Have a little faith, my friend,” Neal smiled. “Let me astound you with my brilliance.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When Peter took note of Neal’s location on the second floor of the Frick Museum the next afternoon, he grabbed Diana and the two FBI agents strolled, hand in hand, like devoted art enthusiasts in the same gallery as the Titian painting. The observant FBI agent noticed two other seemingly disinterested men also loitering in the same room. Keeping their cover intact, Peter and Diana nonchalantly made their way from wall to wall until they were standing close to Neal as he studied the earmarked target of an upcoming heist.

“That Titian fella sure liked the color red,” Peter remarked in a conversational tone.

“Yes, he did,” Neal agreed. “He was really the personification of the Venetian Renaissance School of artisans during the 16th century. He actually perfected that red-gold color by using a secret combination of pigments that he never revealed. Here, move a little to the left,” Neal added as he took Peter by the shoulders. “Then you’ll see the tantalizing bit of highlights.” As Peter was hunched over and peering at the painting, Neal bent forward and whispered, “Thursday at 2:15 AM.”

“Right, right, now I see what you mean. Thanks for the tip,” Peter smiled as he again sought Diana’s hand and they moved on to the next gallery.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Okay, people, listen up,” Peter began briefing his team as well as a cadre of SWAT members late Wednesday evening. Neal’s handler was dressed in a generic security guard’s uniform but with the addition of a sidearm that wasn’t the usual accoutrement in that particular getup. He had a picture of Neal pinned up on a whiteboard, and he was also passing out copies of his partner’s photo to everyone in the room.

“Memorize this man’s face. He is one of ours, not a hostile. Thanks to his intel, we now know that he and two other members of a lethal gang of murderous thieves are going to hit the Frick Museum in a few hours—2 AM, to be precise. They are going after a Titian painting located on the second floor.”

Peter then began handing out the architectural schematics of the building. “The layout of the museum is all very open with huge archways allowing visuals that can pan multiple galleries from any central point. Therefore, the prospect of having a SWAT team lying in wait is not an option. I will be the only person in that building before this all goes down,” Peter added, “and I’ll make sure that the front doors are unlocked so there will be no need for battering rams. The Frick can thank us later for our careful respect concerning their property.”

A few half smiles appeared on SWAT member faces, and maybe a few looks of disappointment because a dramatic entrance would not be required during this breach.

“Now, as I said, the heist is set to be put into motion at 2 AM,” Peter continued. “More than likely, the thieves will make a few sweeps of the neighborhood streets beforehand to make sure that nothing looks suspicious or threatening. That means that any SWAT vehicles can’t come on site until after 2 AM because we don’t want to spook them. It will take the gang time to access the building and dismantle the painting, so when you do make your entrance a few minutes after the designated hour, it should catch them with their pants down.”

Peter made certain to survey the faces before him and saw heads bobbing in agreement. “Now, I know my CI, and he likes to take the high road during a heist. So my guess is he’ll go in through the second floor, maybe utilizing a window or a skylight. We want to catch these guys red-handed in the act of stealing a painting, so we’re going to let things unfold until we have concrete evidence that will put them away in prison. We’ll give them time to take the Titian and begin their exit plan, and that’s when we move on them. It goes without saying that I’ll be point man in this.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Just a few miles away in an empty warehouse, a similar discussion was happening. “I’ve scoped the museum out,” Neal told his two associates, “and I think the best way in is through a skylight. Ground floor windows are always protected by a security system, so I think the skylight is somewhat of a lower risk and may not even be alarmed. The Titian is located in a central gallery on the second floor, so that puts it pretty close to our bolt hole as well. If we play our cards right, we could be in and done and on our way before the lone security guard even realizes anybody is there.”

“That security guard won’t be an issue,” one of the thugs said arrogantly as he pulled out a weapon equipped with a silencer.

“Whoa, dude,” Neal hastily interrupted. “Don’t go creating a mess when there may not even be the need for one. I told you that I’ve done my homework. I’ve used night scope binoculars for the last week to check out the rent-a-cop’s routine. He seems to feel pretty complacent just sitting in a little office on the ground floor taking a nap for most of his shift. Why do you want to go poking a bear?”

“You squeamish or something?” a criminal compatriot wanted to know.

“Look, my friend, if somehow a glitch occurs and we get nabbed, I’d rather go down for theft instead of murder,” Neal said forcefully.

“Well, according to your bigshot bragging about how great you are, there shouldn’t be any glitches,” the gang member replied antagonistically. “I hope this isn’t a deal breaker for you ‘cause, unfortunately, you know too much about us. Maybe instead of being an asset, you could become a liability.”

Neal held the bully’s gaze for a few seconds before answering in a level tone. “I do my best work when I’m calm, buddy, so don’t try to mess with my bliss.” While that statement wasn’t an actual threat, Neal hoped it made the thug realize intimidation wouldn’t be welcome or productive.

Finally, the tension in the space slowly dissipated to a somewhat less hostile level. “It goes how it goes,” the gang member replied stubbornly, “and it’s going to go now.”

“Hold on a minute,” Neal interrupted, “I thought we set 2 AM as the bewitching hour. It’s barely half-past one in the morning.”

“Yeah, I’m changing things up,” the other man smirked. “Hope that doesn’t upset your head’s little happy place.”

“So, let’s do it,” Neal shrugged, now a little less secure that the cavalry would be in place to save the day.

~~~~~~~~~~

As pre-arranged, Peter had arrived at the museum at 1:30 AM to relieve the regular security guard. The man was more than happy to get out of harm’s way. Peter didn’t reset the alarm on the front doors after the man’s hasty departure. He strolled through the ground floor rooms and took a quick look on the second level just to reacquaint himself and reinforce his bearings. Now he reckoned he had approximately twenty more minutes until zero hour when the drama would begin to unfold.

Meanwhile, the two thieves and Neal had just pulled up across the street. The con man hauled out his binoculars and felt somewhat reassured when he found Peter sitting in the small ground floor office. Neal reasoned that he just had to draw this caper out long enough for reinforcements to arrive on site. When the trio worked their way in the darkness to the side of the building, he fiddled with the grappling hook and ropes for an inordinate amount of time until one of his cohorts began to complain, “This isn’t exactly Mt. Everest, so just get on with it already!”

When the three reached the roof, Neal used a laser torch to cut through the skylight, and each man, in turn, lowered himself by means of a winched rope to the floor below. Their soft-soled shoes made hardly any sounds on the marble squares beneath their feet, and in an instant, Neal found himself standing in front of the Titian at exactly 2 AM. This was cutting it very close, and Neal continued to wonder how he could buy more time.

So, very carefully, he removed the painting from the wall and laid it face down at his feet. Rummaging in his bag of tricks, he pulled out some tools and began using a putty knife and pliers to pry the ornate frame away from the masterpiece. His fellow thief was not pleased. “Just cut the fuckin’ thing out so we can be on our way!”

“If you slash it like a barbarian, it will reduce the value,” Neal insisted stubbornly. “We should do this right.”

Neal heard the criminal huff out an exasperated breath. “Listen, idiot, the sale price has already been agreed upon so it won’t be an issue if the whole piece of canvas is an inch or so smaller. Just cut the thing out and roll it into that art tube so we can get the hell outta here and disappear!”

“That wouldn’t be a very wise idea,” Peter’s voice suddenly boomed in the murky darkness. The three interlopers looked up in confusion as Peter’s dark silhouette became a harsh reality once he stepped into the dim room illuminated only by the exit signs above the doors. This surprise apparition was also holding his service weapon in a two-handed grip. One of the thieves was bold enough to swiftly pivot and dash for the stairs. That abrupt movement captured Peter’s focus, and in those brief seconds, the other thug had raised a hand with a silenced weapon.

Neal saw the determined look on the would-be killer’s face and made a split-second decision. Since the young con artist was closer to Peter than to the gang member, he executed a flying tackle aimed at Peter’s chest just as a soft _pfft_ sound was heard in the room. Even though Peter was off-balance, he managed to get his own shot off causing the dangerous shooter to collapse in a heap. Jones, Diana, and SWAT were now hustling up the stairs, and they successfully captured the remaining thief and wrestled him to the ground.

Peter scrambled on his hands and knees toward Neal, who lay face up on the marble floor. The FBI agent compulsively ran his hands over his CI’s chest and torso looking for a wound or the evidence of blood. The fallen young man was peering up with a bewildered expression on his face before his eyes slowly slid shut and it was “Goodnight, Neal.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t know why I have to be here,” Neal whined as he reclined beside Peter on the sofa in the Burke’s living room.

“Because you sustained a nasty concussion when your head collided with the floor, Buddy,” Peter explained patiently. “The doctors at the hospital said that you shouldn’t go to sleep and you shouldn’t be left alone, so here you are with me, like it or not.”

“I’m fine,” Neal stressed. “I have a hard head.”

“Amen to that,” Peter smirked. “Now, you have two choices, kiddo. At this hour, you can watch either old movies or endless infomercials on the tube. I’m opting for more stimulating entertainment like my crossword puzzle.”

The silence lasted all of two minutes before Neal chirped, “What’s a four letter word that means dumber than dirt?”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a four letter word for dumber than dirt?” Peter sighed.

“Ruiz!” Neal snickered.

Peter rolled his eyes. “For an intelligent adult, Neal, sometimes you can act like such a bratty kid.”

“But it’s true,” Neal insisted. “He’s a dumb jerk and I’m so much smarter than he is. I think I’d rather take my chances out-maneuvering the Federal Marshals instead of being stuck working for him again. Take pity on me, Peter, and, in the future, save me from a fate worse than death.”

“You have a very highly inflated opinion of yourself, Neal,” Peter observed. “One could even call you a narcissist.”

Neal gave that some thought. “Yeah, I probably am, but I’m down with that.”

Peter gazed at the sleep-deprived and complaining young man beside him and couldn’t stop the fond smile from blossoming on his lips. Yes, Neal was proud, and, at times, colossally ego-centric. He could be manipulative to get what he wanted without an ounce of guilt attached. He hated boundaries and relished instant gratification. By the Bureau’s standards, he was the quintessential sociopathic con artist.

However, Peter knew his partner was so much more than that. The essence of this con man was that he had a truly good heart, and that was what made him an exception to the rule and quite unique. Neal had risked his life to save Peter—literally placing himself in the path of a bullet. So, in the FBI agent’s book, the young man was a hero as well as a keeper. Maybe, if the Behavioral Analysis Unit ever gave another seminar on con men, Peter would blaze a few new trails and provide them with a lot more food for thought. Maybe he might even take his partner along to keep it interesting, and that quaintly entertaining vision made Peter grin even wider.


End file.
